Fractional
by Melancholy-Sky1507
Summary: When his little brother is caught in Serbia, Mycroft rushes to his aid. But he comes late. Very late. Too late? Sherlock does not seem to be himself any more after his rescue. Mycroft finally turns to the only person who could fetch him back – however, this person...is also broken. What now?
1. Chapter 1: Broken

English is not my first language! Sorry for eventual mistakes.

This story exists also here: /works/5878240/chapters/13547632

* * *

Besides, John Watson was to be broken.

He knew it.

He knew it at the moment at which he sank to the ground in a dark alley, a half-empty bottle of scotch loosely in his right hand.

He knew it when he vomited crossly in the dirty waste mountain before him, observed by a thin street cat, which stares down on him from the lid of a garbage can.

He knew it when he coiled up, sobbing and clenching, while the alcohol from the open bottle slowly flowed into the gutter.

 _What has become from me?_

There was no answer.  
Of course.

The cat stared at him one more moment and then it disappeared into the darkness with a jump.

John saw up in the night sky.  
No stars.  
Concealed by clouds and the smog of the city.

Eventually, he dragged himself home, in the small apartment he had rented for himself, far away from Baker Street.

Away from the voice which still sometimes spoke to him in his head.  
His voice.  
Sherlock's voice.  
Still. After nearly two years.

John answered no longer on Lestrade's concerned messages  
Not, since he had given way, and had come to a crime scene to examine a corpse.  
This had been some months ago in summer.  
When he has bent over the corpse, Sherlock's voice suddenly roared so loud in his head as never before.

 _Oh come on John!_  
 _What a dull case..._  
 _This cannot be more than a 3 on the scale. You deal with something like that? Really?_  
 _We better could eat pasta together at Angelo's._  
 _Or drink tea in front of the fireplace._  
 _Or play Cluedo._  
 _I could even play the violin for you, the piece which you like so much. The piece at which you close your eyes and you can relax._  
 _Come on, John! Let's go home…_

John had collapsed with a strangled groan almost over the corpse, had pressed his hands against his head and was finally gone reeling thereof, had not paid attention to Lestrade's cries, had almost stumbled against a car and wavered over the street under furious honking...

It was too much.

he was just a man, goddamn.

A man who had to watch, as the man who had meant the most to him in his life - who had been his life, damn - had jumped to his death. Blood on asphalt,  
Open stiff eyes which had been so lively before.  
No breath,  
no pulse.

Nothing.

He was made to see this scene in his mind again and again.  
In his sleep and on the day.  
Worse than any nightmare about his time in the war.  
Much worse.  
He had panic attacks again and still refused,  
to take the pills which Ella had prescribed for him.  
That pills would not help against this kind of pain…

Because there was something, something no one knew.  
Something, John no one had ever entrusted.  
Something,  
hidden in his heart, which was slowly breaking apart.

He had been about to fall in love with Sherlock.  
Slowly,  
only with reluctance,  
however, steadily,  
perceptibly at the end.

And he is the only one, who knew this.  
And now this knowledge destroyed him.

 _Why have you done this to me, Sherlock_?, John Watson asked silently in the darkness, while he laid motionless on his bed in a far too large room.

 _Why?_  
 _Why have you left me?_  
 _You could have had me maybe._  
 _You could have been loved._  
 _You could have lived._  
 _With me._

 _You damned crossbreed …_  
 _Why have you left me behind here?_

 _Lonely._

Besides, of Sherlock Holmes was to be broken.

He knew it.

He knew it at the moment at which a dirty finger touched his broken cheek bone, gently, nearly affectionately.

He knew it when warm breath bumped in his face – stinking after cigarettes and cheap alcohol.  
Familiar, in the meantime. A lot too familiar.

Just like the familiar gruff Serbian that haunted him in his dreams – during the few hours in which he was allowed to sleep, before the circle began once more.

„Have you changed your mind, in the meantime? I can continue very long this way, darling," The voice breathed in his ear. This odious voice which was the only one he heard for days now.

„You only have to say it, a few words, and then I will stop. Then I will release you. Maybe it even will be painless. Who knows...only a few words. Why. Are. You. Here? Tell me."

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed trough his mouth to not have to smell the stinking breath.  
He pressed the words through his throat , which was rough and dry ..

„Never…Take your filthy fingers off me…"

The voice laughed quietly and the finger went through one of the cuts in his cheek.  
It burnt.

„Well...fight on, resist further, I like it to break the defiant – the proud. And I will break you. Sooner or later."  
„No. My brother will come and he will kill you," Sherlock said with all conviction he still could raise. "You shouldn't underestimate him..."  
The other laughed again.  
„Nobody will come. We are here completely alone for ourselves. Exactly like the last days. I will continue, until nothing more is left of you, until you beg me to kill you and until you spit out everything, only, so that the pain would end…But it must not come this far if you tell me now, what I want to know."  
"Never," Sherlock said once more, his eyes firmly closed. „Never..."

„As you wish. Means more fun for me. "

 _Be a machine, Sherlock_ …,Mycroft's voice said in his head, cold and considered.  
 _A machine feels no pain … no fear and no desperation._  
 _Be hard like stone. Stone does not break…_

 _Machine!,_ John's voice shouted in his head, frustrated and unbelievingly.  
An echo of the past.

However, when the blows pelted down once more on him, when old wounds burst and new ones were torn, Sherlock thought with himself that machines did not bleed …  
And stones did not bleed as well… And stones did not scream.  
But humans bled. Humans screamed.  
He was only human.  
And humans broke.  
Sometime.

 _Where are you Mycroft?_

 _Where does the Eastwind remain?_

 _It should better hurry up._  
 _I do not know, how long I still last out…_

„Where is he?" Mycroft asked in harsh Serbian, while he pressed the young man before him to a trunk and held a gun to his throat.  
His application team surrounded him, all weapons directed on the Serbian whom they had cornered.  
A member of the group which smuggled for Moriarty with drugs and order murders in Serbia, a breakthrough finally, in search of Sherlock. It had lasted far too long…  
As an answer to his question Mycroft received a malicious, knowing grin.

„You would know this with pleasure, what?"

„Where is he?" Mycroft barked once more and pressed the run of the gun more emphatically in the soft meat below the chin of the Serbian.  
The grin became broader.

„You find out nothing at all from me, you English crossbreed!"

Mycroft curled his lips to a cheerless smile.

„I would not let come it on it," He said coldly. „I have brought quite other men to the speech than small-criminal rats like you. I am a patient man…"

The smile of the Serbian broke when he looked in Mycrofts hard eyes. He saw a dark promise there, which told of pain and left no doubt about the fact that Mycroft meant it completely seriously.  
Moriarties nickname for Mycroft was well known in local areas.  
 _Iceman_ …without feelings, without scruple.  
The young man swallowed.

„If I talk, will you let me go?" He asked lurking.  
"Hardly. But you would save yourself an amount of incommodities," Mycroft answered drily and with stress.

„He is with Branko…Under the old, closed weapon factory in Kosjerić," The Serbian said without hesitating in a bored tone.  
„How many men?"  
„Maybe 20..."  
"Do they know who he is?"  
"Yes, but they want to know, why he is here. How he has found them..."  
Mycroft nodded and took the gun off the neck of the Serbian.  
He said the truth.

"Hey," The Serbian said grinning. "Are the English prisons really as comfortable as everybody says?"  
"If, then I'll hand you over to the local authorities," Mycroft answered chilly, the aversion burnt like bile in his throat.

The man disgusted him. They all disgusted him. This whole gang of criminals. They were primitive, uncivilised and corruptible.  
Without spine or solidarity even towards the own people.  
There was no spark of decency or honour in them. Exactly, therefore, he gave himself big troubles about Sherlock...

„It was clever from you to talk," Mycroft said coldly and the Serbian grinned again. This time it was a very spiteful grin.  
"Anyway, you are already too late, English crossbreed," He spitted Mycroft in the stiff face. „You should have heard him, how he has screamed until his voice gave out…now he does not scream a lot any more, of course, has no more strength for it, I think. But some days ago, oh, yes, there he has only screamed and screamed. Names. John, John over and over again. And the name of his brother who has not come to help him. He has begged you to come, has begged you to save him, to let stop the pain..."  
With a furious scream Mycroft hit his gun against the temple of the Serbian, who slumped unconscious in his clutch, the grin still illustrated on the dirty face.  
Mycroft sank him to ground and watched, how his men carried him off.

He breathed hard.  
He was cold.  
He had a goose flesh.  
It was long ago that he had lost his control in that way.  
However, it also was long ago that he had escorted an application.  
He did not like it to be actively in the field.  
It was dirty, it was degrading and far under his level.  
However, he could not leave Sherlock's rescue to anyone else.

Never in his life had he had to come to assistance Sherlock with a mission.  
Sherlock had always got away with some scratches or bruises in the past.  
Had appeared in London sometime with a haughty grin in the face as if he wants to say: See what I am able to do. See what I am able of!  
However, now it had been weeks that he received the last sign from his brother.  
It had been frightening.  
It had lasted quite a while, until Mycroft noticed that something had to have gone wrong - until he had had a vague notion where his brother had disappeared and where he was held on – Sherlock had blurred his tracks always very well. This was his special talent…

And now it was a curse.

Now Mycroft had fear…For the first time.

 _You are too late_ …, the words resounded in his head.

 _Oh, Sherlock …_

 _I will be there soon._

 _Hold out._

Mycroft rose in the dark carriage in whose boot now the tied up Serbian lay, and stared from the window at the snowy, scanty scenery which passed outdoors.  
His mouth was pulled to a fierce, determined look.

If he found Sherlock,  
and if he was injured,  
if he had just one scratch,  
then mercy God to his kidnappers.

Because he himself would show no mercy.

Sherlock coughed and gasped for breath as he was dragged out of the water by his hair.  
The world around him had become blurred and black points walked before his eyes.  
He felt as detached from his body.  
This time they had waited long…  
Had held him down, until he believed, his lungs would burst.

"Talk," The usual voice said coldly.

"No," Sherlock gasped, and tried to remain with consciousness.

"Again," The Voice said flatly.

Once more he became with the head under water low-spirited and once more his lungs burnt, again panic climbed up to him. The instinct to turn up, became to appear stronger and stronger, his body rebelled like by itself, tried to shake off the hands which held him down relentlessly.  
Water everywhere...  
No air...  
Drowning...  
Then – air, black points, the voice.

„Why are you here? How have you found us?"

„...Fuck...you."

„Again."

…

How long was he already here?

Days?  
Weeks?  
Time played no role here…  
Every day was the same.  
Worried sleep,  
painful reveille,  
the voice,  
the hands,  
pain,  
faint,  
consciousness,  
pain …

People broke.

Sherlock broke when the hands walked deeper for the first time, over cuts and swells and breaks - as that what remained of his consciousness made clear to him what was just about to happen and that it was more than he could endure.

He broke when the hands moved over his hips and when he felt the usual hot breath on his breast which was quicker than otherwise.

„Stop!"

The hands paused, paused carefully.  
„Yes pretty boy?" The voice asked expectantly, lurking, with a triumphing undertone.  
„Please...don't..."  
„You only need to talk…Talk, and I'll stop."  
And Sherlock talked. The words erupted from him like bitter bile. He could not stop.  
„My name is of Sherlock Holmes. I am Consulting Detective…Moriarty made me jump, otherwise he would have killed everybody which is close to me. I simulated my death and he committed suicide. I went off to destroy his network. I killed Moran. I killed Tramontin in Italy. I brought Silver behind bars and destroyed his drug cartel in Florida…I, I have…," He fell silent, a fit of coughing shook him and cut off his air for talking.  
„Nevertheless, this was not bad at all - for the beginning", said the voice nearly affectionately. „Even if you have only told me basically what I already knew...What the spider has told me. And now lie still..."  
"No," Sherlock shouted in panic and tried to get away from the hands which held him down. „I have talked, I..."

And then everything suddenly happened all at once.

A shot broke through the space and the hands disappeared from him.

More shots sounded and Sherlock heard shouts somewhere.  
The world suddenly was full with noise and shades.  
Chaos broke out and foreign blood dripped onto his forehead when a body broke down beside him, a hole between the eyes in which an echo of astonishment was to be seen.

 _The Eastwind_ , Sherlock thought weakly. T _he Eastwind is here…Finally_.

He lost consciousness when he felt hands, friendly hands, pressing and reassuringly on his face and from wide distance he heard the voice of his big brother which called his name.

 _And the Eastwind took them all away…_  
 _Away, away in a distant country._


	2. Chapter 2: Two years

John Watson stood at the cemetery and took sulkily a gulp from the bottle of beer in his hand.

In the distance crashed fireworks. High-spirited, carefree youngsters…

"Congratulations," John said hoarsely to Sherlock's grave stone. "You're dead for two years now, bastard. Better than to be here. "

He laughed joyless, a little hysterical, and some older ladies who paced the grave rows behind him, threw him a suspicious look.

John dropped a few drops of alcohol on the grave. "Cheerio."

He stared with dull eyes on the lettering and the white lilies that were half-frozen in the cold winter air. Mrs. Hudson had bought them, of course.

"Why am I still here?" He muttered to himself. "I don't know. You tell me, Sherlock. What am I doing, goddamn? Why do I chase me no bullet in the head? Maybe I'm a coward ... you weren't one. You have jumped from a fucking roof ... "

He took another sip of alcohol.

His phone buzzed.

John fished it listlessly from his jacket pocket.

Perhaps a new message from Lestrade ... return to these issues. The same questions constantly.  
 _How are you , John ?_  
 _Shall we have a drink together, John?_  
 _There is this special case , John ... do you want to come?_  
He really had enough of it.

But when John looked at the screen, he froze.  
The message was not from Greg .  
It was from  
 _Mycroft Holmes._

'John. I need your help. Come as soon as possible to Baker Street. Please. MH'

 _Please?_

Incredulous John stroked his face.

 _Please…_

A Mycroft Holmes asked for nothing. He took it.  
Damn, John was surprised that there stood no black sedan behind him.

Apparently, it was serious.  
Probably it was about Sherlock.  
John swallowed.

He had Mycroft not seen for long time now ... barely had spoken to him since the funeral.  
Mycroft Holmes was at least someone who ... well, he got along, right?  
What could he want of John?

John put the phone back into his coat pocket, frowning.  
He put the empty bottle of beer next to the frostbitten lilies and put a hand on the grave stone.  
„I'll be back soon ," he said hoarsely , fighting the lump in his throat. "You will not go away, huh? ... Yes"  
He swallowed and then turned around.  
He left the cemetery and called a taxi to Baker Street on the main street.

John could feel the pounding, that announced the usual headaches that followed his drinking, as he waited on the road.  
A rocket flew about him in the night sky and burst in a muddle of colours.  
Soon was New Year …

"John," Mycroft said in an exhausted tone, as he opened the door. "Thank you for coming."  
John stared at the older Holmes speechless.  
He could not believe what he saw before himself.

Mycroft looked ... perfectly done. As if he had not slept for nights and had hardly eaten something. There were dark circles under his eyes, almost purple. The hair was messy and longer than usual. John was surprised that it was actually slightly curled at the ends. Mycroft was not wearing a suit, like usual. Instead, he wearied only a white shirt, which was crumpled and was provided with some spots on breast height. And ... stubbles.  
John swallowed.  
He wondered if Mycroft had a kind of delayed grief reaction.  
A nervous breakdown.  
He knew that this occurred. With some people.  
Everyone handled it differently…  
He himself preferred alcohol and soliloquies.

"Mycroft," he said cautiously. "Is everything alright? Is it because Sherlock? "  
Mycroft let out a mirthless, short laugh that frightened John even more.  
"Yes ... yes, you could say so. Come in, John. Please."  
"Uhm, yes, sure ..."

John entered the apartment behind Mycroft.  
It smelled vaguely after chicken soup and ... disinfectants?  
Quiet music, soft violins sounds, floated from above through the stairwell, and offset John a slight shock.  
The image before his eyes ... Sherlock, with the violin on his shoulder, his eyes closed, in the highest concentration and relaxation ... John quickly shook the picture off.

He followed Mycroft, who first introduced him to the small kitchen at Mrs. Hudson, who did not seem to be there.  
The elder Holmes pointed silently to one of the chairs at the table and John sat down on it. Interrogative he raised his eyebrows and looked at Mycroft.  
Mycroft sat down sighing towards John, with slow movements, as if he was in pain while doing it.

"John," he began hesitantly and nervously stroked over his pale face. "This ... is not easy. But I do not know what to do. Yes," he said with a sarcastic, crooked grin that would not quite suit him. "This is really happens actually ... I do not know what to do ..."  
"Mycroft," John said gently, despite his throbbing headache. "It is OK. I understand that. You can talk to me, okay? Everyone feels grief differently ..."  
Mycroft raised a hand, and John fell silent, shocked by the abysmally desperate look the other man now showed him.  
"No, John. You do not understand. Sherlock..." Mycroft cleared his throat hoarsely and looked down at the table. He ... he is not dead. John.  
Sherlock lives. "

Silence.  
Only interrupted by the gentle sounds of the distant music.

John stared at the other man stunned.

God. Mycroft had lost his mind.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and scratched helplessly at the back of his head. Mycroft continued to stare at the table.  
Christ... John had no idea what to say to that.  
He was at the end by himself. Desperate and depressed. From time to time even death eagerly - like today at the cemetery. Not to mention the slight alcohol addiction, which he had developed...  
How should he help a Mycroft Holmes, which was very just not Mycroft Holmes at the moment?  
"You do not believe me, don't you?" Mycroft asked and ripped John out of his thoughts.  
The elderly Holmes looked at him attentively and John cleared his throat embarrassed.  
"Mycroft ... I, uh, Sherlock ... he's dead," he tried to say as gently as possible.  
God, these headaches were getting worse with every second...  
"We buried him, remember? The church? The speech that you gave - the burial, huh "?

He half hoped, Mycroft would be attentive now, would just shake his head to collect himself, and then would say: But of course. I remember. That was only a small loss of control. I'm sorry, John.  
But instead, Mycroft sighed heavily, then said quietly and seriously: "No John. We have not Sherlock buried. Sherlock lives and he needs you now. He needs you very urgent. "

Damn it…

John took a deep breath.  
"Mycroft ..."  
"I can prove it to you, John," Mycroft said and John froze.

No…

"I ...," he said uncertainly, but Mycroft already stood up and pointed invitingly towards the stairs.  
"Come, I'll show you. But I must warn you. It is ... not particularly pleasant, I'm afraid."  
And he ran up the stairs.  
John followed him in a daze, his headache now a steady, loud knocking. In his ears it rushed.  
The music grew louder as they walked into the apartment.  
It was like a shock for John ... everything was as usual. Everything like before.  
The couch.  
Their Armchairs.  
The chimney.  
And it ... burned.  
Comforting warmth in the room.

Lord God in heaven...  
That was too much…

John was breathing heavily, trying to keep control of himself as he followed Mycroft through the familiar living room to Sherlock's room, where the music seemed to come from.  
God, Mycroft it seemed to go much worse than himself...  
At least John had never had such a realistic hallucination.  
In a moment Mycroft would open the door, and there will be an empty room...  
No detective who cried angry and ordered him to leave immediately...

 _Piss off, Mycroft!_

No. Never again.

John swallowed as Mycroft opened the door to Sherlock's room cautiously, quietly and peered inside.  
He seemed relieved by what he saw.  
"He is sleeping ... The music helps. Sometimes," he said softly and waved to John to join him.  
John smiled at him half-heartedly, though he was sick.  
Christ…  
He went to Mycroft, stood beside him and also looked into the room.

The next moment, he froze.  
A gasp broke away from his lips.  
His legs under him were suddenly weak and trembling.

 _God. No._  
 _No no no._

Sherlock's room looked like always.  
Apart from the CD player on the windowsill and the hospital bed, against that Sherlock's earlier bed had been replaced. In addition, a drip and an ECG - and in the bed, almost completely covered by a blanket, lay a figure, lay - Sherlock.  
It was hardly more of him visible than his thick, curly hair.  
But there he was.  
Sherlock.

John could not breathe.  
He stared, and eventually Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder.  
John hardly noticed.

"You can go to him," the elderly Holmes said in a sad tone. "He will not wake up now, I guess."  
John let the air that he had stopped, escape and took a step backward. Then another forward.  
His chest felt as though it was hit by a wrecking ball which left a big hole there.

No…

 _This is a hallucination, John,_ a voice whispered in his head. _A hallucination._  
 _Mycroft has upset you so much that now you have illusions too ... Nothing more_.

Yes, this had to be true…  
But it did not look like a hallucination.

John walked slowly, on shaky legs, into the room. He walked into the quiet, soothing music and the cloud of sterile hospital smell and human sweat  
He walked forward until he was standing next to the bed.  
He put a hand on the safety grid, trying not to turn his gaze to the head of hair on the pillow.  
The grid did not disappeared ... It was cold and firm. It was real.  
John gasped frantically.

God ... Jesus...

A hallucination...  
Slowly, as externally controlled, John held out his hand to Sherlock's sleeping face, which was half covered by a bandage, as he saw now.  
He held his breath. And then his fingers gently touched Sherlock's forehead. A cool, wet forehead.

Oh. Oh God.

"Sherlock," John whispered in disbelief. Tears came into his eyes. "God ... Sherlock."  
He pulled back his hand, as if he had burnt himself and held on breathlessly to the security grid.  
No no no…  
Was it a nightmare?  
Somewhere he could hear Mycroft's voice. Somewhere far away.  
But a loud noise filled his ears.  
Fulfilled his whole world, as he stared in Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock...  
Sherlock was not dead.  
Sherlock was alive.  
 _Sherlock..._

The next moment John rolled his eyes and collapsed beside the bed.

Something was wrong...  
Something ... something was wrong here.  
But what?  
 _What?_

Sherlock walked frowning down the hallway of his mind palace and thought feverishly what was different here than usual.  
This was difficult, because he did not seem to be able to think …  
Oh, how he hated it, to not being able to think.  
Everything was so hazy and indistinct, all so transparent and ... and since when was it so cold here? He always burn the fireplace ... Always.

Somewhere, far away, it seemed someone was playing violin ...  
Mycroft?  
Mycroft had ... he had really played for him?  
Yes.  
Sherlock vaguely remembered that Mycroft had played for him, just like in the old days.  
But when...  
And why?  
Why?  
Because…  
It had something to do with the Eastwind.  
It…

God, he had to become clear. Think ... Think, Sherlock.

 _John._  
John would help him to become clearer.  
John was not allowed to know that he was not dead, but that was fine. Because he was here. John was here all the time.  
Yes, Sherlock knew where John was.  
Knew where the room was.  
He walked purposefully toward it, and put his hand on the doorknob.  
The door opened heavier than usual.  
And when it finally swung open, it creaked loudly. Creaked like a door in one of those silly scary movies that John was so fond of.  
"John," Sherlock said quietly and looked searching around in the bright room. "John, I cannot concentrate. Something is wrong and I do not know what it is. You have to help me. Where are you?"

 **Who is John, Sherlock?**

Sherlock froze when the malicious voice came in his ear.  
His neck hairs stood up.

 **Is John a friend of yours?**

That voice.  
He knew that voice.  
It was HIS voice.  
No….  
Sherlock turned hastily towards the door - but it slammed close before his face.  
A bang. Loudly. Definitively.  
He shook the door knob. Desperately. It had to rise. The doors always rose.  
This door remained closed.  
Sherlock gave up when he was out of breath and turned on the spot into the room. "John?" He asked uncertainly, anxiety climbed up in him. "John are you here?"

 **There is no John, little detective** , the voice said softly into his ear and Sherlock pressed his hands against his head, moaning.  
 _Go away ... this is John's room!_  
But the voice did not disappear.

 **I'm not done with you yet ... we have all the time in the world ... and maybe we can get John into it, huh? Let him join a little...**  
"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted furiously and pressed his hands hard against his head. The music was gone...  
He was cold.  
So cold.

Sherlock fell to the ground and tears welled up in his eyes as the pain came back ... So much pain ... too much. It was too much.  
But he was not allowed to talk...  
If he spoke everything was for nothing…  
They all would be in danger.  
Everybody.

John…  
John had to be safe.

When the pain shook him Sherlock saw indistinct, as the walls around him became cracks.  
 _John…_  
 _John, help me._


	3. Chapter 3: So Tired

"John? Can you hear me, John?"

A voice...far away, blurred, resounding echo and yet urgently. Unbearable assertive, intertwined in his vague thoughts that came back slowly and turned. Shreds.

His eyes opened slowly and the world around him swayed immediately.  
Colorful shadows before him, distorted in absurd forms.  
Nausea.  
John closed his eyes firmly again.  
He wanted to go back in the silent darkness.  
Back in the peaceful, merciful unconsciousness, but a hand slapped him lightly on the cheek. Once, twice, three times. Emphatically and burning.

"John. Stay with me."

I do not want to…  
 _You need to_.

Reluctantly John opened one eye, squinted into the painful brightness and in the blurred face in front of him.

"That's good. Deep breaths."

The voice was light. Bright and pleasant, John noticed now.

A woman…

He managed to focus and looked into blue eyes, framed by mascara.  
Red lips curled into a gentle smile.  
A hand lightly on his shoulder.

John shook his head in confusion and was finally capable to organize his thoughts.

 _Mycroft ..._  
Sherlock ...  
Sherlock alive.  
Sherlock in the hospital bed in his room, unconscious. Associations.  
Music and chicken soup.  
Collapse.

 _I fainted_ , John thought dully. _Well, that's something new.._

"How do you feel?" The woman before him asked gently and John refocused on her. He frowned.  
"Dizzy..."  
"Yes, you should have a drink," she said kindly, handing him a glass of water out of nowhere.  
"Thank you," John said flatly and drank the glass in one train. He cleared his throat.  
"I...I am not to be used to pass out," he said weakly, and the woman pulled her full lips to a knowing smile.  
"Yes. It is not a pleasant experience. I know. Can you stand up?"  
John could. Even if it took a long time. Longer than he liked it.  
He looked around.  
He was no longer in Sherlock's bedroom. Instead, he was in the living room.  
He still could hear quietly violin sounds which floated gently through the room.  
He swallowed.

Mycroft was nowhere in sight.  
He turned to the woman who looked at him attentively.  
She was about as tall as he, and dressed in a dapper suit. The long, brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail.  
"Um," John said embarrassed and scratched his neck. "And you were...?"  
"Doctor Sara Whitecheapel," she said quietly and shook his hand. "Call me Sara. I'm a trauma expert. Actually. But I am familiar with spontaneous fainting quite well, John." "  
"Oh," John made and shook her hand briefly. "Are you here because of..."  
"Sherlock, yes," she said, and John shook his head helplessly.  
"I thought he - he's dead," he said softly, Sara nodded briefly.  
"I know. Mycroft told me everything."  
John nodded and kneaded his fingers restlessly. "Um, where is he?"  
"At Sherlock. He asked me to enlighten you. Said he felt just not capable to do it by himself," Sara said, pointing to the chair by the fireplace. "Shall we sit?"  
"Oh. Yes," John said, feeling again nausea ascend to himself as he realized that he had now to deal with it...With everything.  
With Sherlock, who was alive.  
With Sherlock, to whom he had mourned for nothing.

Wasted Years...  
Disturbing presence.  
Uncertain future.

*

"He was scared," Mycroft said gently and stroked Sherlock's uninjured cheek. "No wonder, isn't it...But he's here now. He will hear everything and then he will understand. He will be able to help you. More than I could, Sherlock."

Mycroft sighed and looked at the silent, lifeless face of his brother.  
The faint sounds of music made him tired.  
He was so very tired.  
For days now.

Days which always followed the same pattern.

Restless sleep, which ended with Sherlock's hoarse screams.  
The dizzy run into Sherlock's room...soothing, giving comfort, drying tears.  
Thereafter, the first medication.

The easy part...that was the easy part.  
After that the fighting came.

Freeing Sherlock of the infusions and cables without having injured him because he flinched before the touches.  
Supporting him on the way to the bathroom without having lost his grip and struck his head again. Once again, old wounds ripped open.  
Urging him to wash, without that he had a flashback and believed to suffocate.  
Convincing him to go to the toilet, although he mostly wet the sheets.  
Meanwhile, making the bed and getting new sheets, in a hurry, so Sherlock wont be alone for too long in the bathroom.  
Then bringing Sherlock back to bed, connecting the infusions and cables.  
Then the next medication.  
After that the attempt to get a little food into him.  
Eternities spent with encouragements.

Please Sherlock, just a little toast, you need it, please. Just for me… For me…

And then the music. Slow asleep while Mycroft held him in his arms and muttered stories. Stories for which he needed no books anymore. He could memorize them all. Finally, when Sherlock was sleeping, Mycroft allowed himself to eat. But it gave him no satisfaction.  
He was so tired...  
They had tried it with a nurse. And with a caregiver. One or two times. And it had been a disaster. In every sense. Sherlock was not calm, as the foreign hands had touched him. He only allowed Mycroft near to him.  
And so he had them all sent away, and had take on the care by himself. Something that he had never thought possible. Mycroft Holmes...a full-time care.  
Only supported by Doctor Whitecheapel, which he considered to be trustworthy. He knew her from before. A good doctor. She gave him advices. _Talk to him. Talk about old times. About the people he knew and he protected. Talking him out of the trauma. Give him everyday life. Safety. Rest and peace_.

And Mycroft tried. He really tried. But every morning there was only silence. And the fear in Sherlock's eyes. Fear that never disappeared. Omnipresent.  
But now John Watson was there. John, who meaned more than anything else for Sherlock. John, for whom Sherlock did everything. John, who had made Sherlock happy. So happy.  
He had to do it again now.

Mycroft Holmes was tired.

 _I could really use a release_ , he thought as he stroked Sherlock's hair. _Some rest...Just a little rest._

*

John stared at the documents in his hands.  
Incredulous.  
Frozen in horror.

 _Lord in heaven..._

First, there were lists of the injuries with which Sherlock had been taken to hospital.  
Injury, by which John was able to tap the word for what had happened immediately.

Torture.

Sherlock had been tortured.

In every possible way.

They had torn out his nails, burned his feet, broke his fingers - several times - cuttet his arms, legs and chest, hit him green and blue all over his body - again and again - whipped him until his back hung in bloody shreds, broke his right cheekbone, cut the face and infected the cuts with dirt and apparently pushed him under water until he nearly suffocated because in the documents stands that Sherlock had fought against the oxygen mask like a madman.

Dehydrated, malnourished, half frozen, septic. High blood loss. Major trauma...  
The diagnosis took up an entire page.

Johns fingers trembled as he read the pages that told of Sherlock's rescue in Serbia.  
Mycroft.  
Mycroft bloody Holmes in person had walked down to the basement and had three of the torturers simply shot - and then he read of the flight to the hospital in London, meanwhile Sherlock had three attacks of severe psychosis.  
Finally he read that Sherlock was repeatedly operated and eventually had been given back to Mycroft's care, because he was not to calm in the hospital.  
 _  
God..._  
 _Jesus..._

John dropped the documents and stared into the fire.  
He swallowed and shook his head.

"Why?" He whispered flatly.

Sara watched him from her chair and lowered her head sadly.  
"Mycroft told me everything. Sherlock had faked his suicide two years ago to protect you, Gregory Lestrade and Mrs. Martha Hudson.  
Moriarty threatened to have them killed if he wouldn't jump.  
Sherlock disappeared with the help of Molly Hooper, his brother and a few people from his homeless network to destroy Moriarty's network so that all of you would no longer be at risk.  
He traveled all over the world. Unraveled on the entire network, until it ended up in Serbia. That would have been the last job."

John swallowed.  
Sara's words hit him in his heart.  
It hurted.  
A lot.

 _Oh Sherlock..._

"What happened?" He asked hoarsely.  
"He was caught," Sara said quietly. "They abducted him and tortured him to get informations. It took Mycroft a while to find out what had happened.  
He himself travelled to Serbia to seek Sherlock.  
When he found him and freed him, he was already losing his mind.  
He is in a serious trauma, John.  
He let only Mycroft near to him. Only responds to his voice.  
A regression of the worst kind. It is very ... painful for Mycroft. It destroys him. Although he would never admit it, of course, by himself. But I can see it. That's my job.  
I was it also who finally engouraged him to initiate you. Mycroft said, you could still be in danger. But I told him that you could help."

John swallowed again.

 _My God…_

Oh Sherlock.  
Unfortunately, selfless Sherlock...  
Had one time more only thought about the others...  
Was tortured because of the friends he claimed not to have.

The sharp pang of guilt shot through John, as he thought of how many times he had cursed Sherlock.  
How often he had insulted him in thought.  
In a drunken stupor.

So often…

 _Bastard ..._  
 _Freak ..._  
 _Heartless…_  
 _Selfish…_

 ** _Machine._**

And what had Sherlock done in the meanwhile?  
He had fought...  
To ensure their safety.  
Alone.  
Somewhere in the nowhere.

 _I'm sorry_ , John thought desperately. _I'm so, so sorry_...  
 _But, I am a broken human too…_

And he looked at Sara, with deep sadness in his eyes.  
"I don't know...I... how can I help?" He asked helplessly. "I have mourned. So much..."  
He laughed bitterly. "I'm a wreck. An alcohol-impaired, mentally clouded over wreck, Sara."  
Sara looked at him attentively and nodded slightly.  
"I know it's hard, John. After two years of mourning...But for Sherlock, you need to get back. You must begin to realize that he is alive. That he needs your help. Can you do this?"  
John hesitated, then looked down at the documents in his hand.

 _All this pain..._

 _God._

John saw Sherlock before him, alone and scared in a dark basement. Tormented and cold and hungry.  
Screams...  
Did Sherlock shouted after him? Did he beg John for help? Did he scream his name until his throat was sore?  
The thought staggered John a cruel pang.

He closed his eyes. Breathed deeply. Then he opened them again and looked at Sara.  
"Yes...I can do it. I...at least I'll try," he said softly.  
Sara nodded. "I'll help you, John."  
"Ok," he said in a trembling voice, stroking his sweaty forehead.  
"Then on into battle..."

 _Sherlock was shaking._  
 _Why was it so cold..._  
 _He couldn't open the door._  
 _He was trapped._

 _The voice was gone now._  
 _Luckily…_  
 _It said things..._

 _About John._

 _That he did not care._  
 _That he hated Sherlock, as did all._

 _Sherlock shivered and huddled together in himself even more._  
 _There was nothing..._  
 _Only the floor and cracked walls and the silence._

 _I want to get out of here…_  
 _I want...John_  
 _I want to solve cases and drink tea by the fireplace and see all the boring movies that John likes so much._  
 _I want to see him laughing._  
 _John…_

 _Sherlock whimpered and wrapped his arms around himself._

 _Was there a way out?_  
 _Or he had to stay here forever..._  
 _Along with the voice and the pain and the cold?_  
 _Was that death?_  
 _Was that his personal hell?_  
 _Was that eternity?_

 _Sherlock shivered in the cold and a tear rolled slowly down his face while the silence crushed him._

 _And from far away,_  
 _like a cruel mocking echo,_  
 _he heard his name,_  
 _whispered,_  
 _a breathy sigh,_  
 _that almost_  
 _sounded like John's voice._

"Sherlock..."


End file.
